


Sunday Noon

by thorinawesomeshield (veganerwurst)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, But not of the war, Depression, First Meeting, Flashbacks, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Violence, Violence against Children, What if Mike never introduced them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veganerwurst/pseuds/thorinawesomeshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Every Sunday he goes to Regent's Park.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>He always arrives at the same time.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Sits on the same bench.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Reads the same book.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Every single week.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Second Star To The Right And Straight On 'Til Morning

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry. It's not my fault. It's 4 AM here and my brain was like 'Hey you know what would be totally funny...?!' 
> 
> So, this story is to my brain: _~Fuck. You.~_
> 
> //Edit: Hey guys, thank you for the lovely feedback and the Kudos! I've decided to make a second Chapter from Johns POV, so stay tuned :D

~*~

Every Sunday he goes to Regent's Park.

He always arrives at the same time.

Sits on the same bench.

Reads the same book.

Every single week.

 Sherlock doesn't know when he noticed the strange man for the first time, though when he thinks about it, it was probably almost a year ago. The pattern of the weekly return of the man however he became aware just five months ago, which is understandable because _he_ is not every Sunday at Regent's. Well, he used not to be anyway. Now that's a different story.

He doesn't even know why this particular man had captured his attention at all.  
Sure the man may not be completely boring compared to the other idiots Sherlock is forced to endure every day, but he is fairly sure he has him all figured out by now.

His short but relatively strong stance hidden under hideous jumpers tell him that the man is not what he wants to appear like, that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His military bearing and tanned skin, his (probably psychosomatic) limp and the way he moves when the weather is particular bad, speak of a Soldier wounded in action, most likely in Iraq or Afghanistan. His dark blond hair which is turning gray on the edges and his tired face, the worn-out clothes the man wears and the tremor in his left hand all but scream of sleeplessness, of PTSD, of depression and of loneliness. The way he watches other people, nice but distanced, express his reluctance to make social connection to anyone, to trust anyone. The way he looks at a drunk man one Sunday noon lets Sherlock know about an alcoholic relative, presumably the father or an older sibling.

Sherlock can tell that the man doesn't like the smell of roses, that he does love his jumpers, that he has a small flat where he doesn't really feel at home, that he likes the minutes right before sunset when the light goes dim and the streets go gray and most people are already home.  
He saw him on his way home, moving quietly in the darkness, when nobody seemed to be out anymore and he felt safe from the eyes of strangers. Saw him looking longing trough the windows of strange houses, for a second flooded in warm light as he passed. He saw him as he listened to the voices of life emerging from there, and he saw him walking away gripping his cane as if his life depended on it.  
He knows that the soldier likes to look at the leaves of the trees when the lanterns make them shine almost orange and the sky above them turns slowly black.  
And he knows perfectly well that the man isn't in a relationship and hasn't been in a while, that he is bisexual, that he prefers blonde, short women with big breasts, but tall, well-build men with striking faces - even though Sherlock does not really know why this particular piece of information insists on being especially remarkable in his mindpalace.

That being said Sherlock acknowledges that the man is not really utterly dull but this does not explain that he always has this gnawing feeling as if he's missing something important about him.  
Or that he stuffed every single detail about him in his mind-palace, even redecorated a whole room for the soldier.  
Or that he wants to see the man smile for once, preferably at him.  
Or that he wants to know the man's name, wants to hear how his voice sounds.

It doesn't explain at all why Sherlock, since four months, is every single Sunday afternoon at exactly three fifty-five in Regent's Park, every week in a different disguise, each time somewhere else in the park but always in eyeshot of a certain bench where always a certain limping blond man with ugly jumpers would turn up fifteen minutes later, sit down and read his book til nightfall.

He doesn't understand and even though somewhere buried in his mind a alarm bell goes off, he is Sherlock Holmes and not understanding is not something that Sherlock Holmes is going to accept and so he has no choice at all but to keep watching the man.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock has no idea when he last slept and even though he considers himself above the ridiculous needs of his body it's perfectly clear that he can't go on for much longer. He already feels slightly ill (although this could maybe also be due to the fact that he hadn't eaten in several days), his limps grow heavier with every minute and the samples beneath the microscope begin to blur.

His current case is a very stimulating one, a nine even. A locked room serial murder, eleven confirmed victims, possibly even more, each one looked like suicide, every time a different method of killing, for each victim the suitable technique. It had been almost perfect. Sherlock had been impressed, this killer was good. Not as good as Sherlock, mind you.

And now, now Sherlock knows he has it as good as figured out, that there is only a tiny piece missing, he can almost _taste_ the solution on his tongue but he can't quite seem to get there. His mind is rebelling against him, it's been too long without sleep, he is too tired and he knows perfectly well that he has to rest, because there is no way in getting this admittedly clever and probably highly dangerous killer in his current state.

He has approximately an hour before he collapses, more than enough time to finish his tests, leave Barts and get a cab to Baker Street.

 It isn't until he checks his mobile as leaves the hospital and feels the rain soaking his coat that the detective remembers what day it is. Sunday. And it's already past 6 PM. Without thinking twice about it he hails a cab and lets it drive him to Regent's Park instead of the flat, desperately hoping he didn't miss his soldier. Why it is so important to see him, he doesn't know, but _it is_. (And he doesn't even notice until much later that he referred to the man as _his_ soldier in his mind.)

When they arrive he all but trashes some money at the cabbie and runs through the rain to the bench and even though he sees that there is no one sitting on it, he still runs towards it and he is not crying, _he is not_ , it's just the rain running over his face, and it's his eyes, so tired he can't hardly keep them open anymore, it's a natural reaction, nothing else and _why the hell would he even be crying just because he missed a man he stalked every week, someone who didn't even know him, didn't even see him?_ It's so ridiculous he actually feels laughter bubbling inside of him and he is crashing, getting on his knees in front of this fucking bench and laughing and _not crying_ like a madman.

It takes Sherlock several minutes to get control over himself again. His little episode right now gave him a nice shot of adrenalin but he is on borrowed time and knows it. He has thirty minutes at most to make it to 221b. As he stands up he grabs the bench for support and his hands bump against something he had not seen before, the darkness and the _rain_ in his eyes hiding it. Not that he'd known to look for it.

He picks it up, his hands trembling. He knows what it is. It is a book. It is _the_ book, he'd seen that worn dark green cover a thousand times wishing he could see a title, an author, anything - could know what it was the soldier was reading. It was _his_ book. He had lost it. And it was soaked by the rain but not completely ruined. He could return it. _He could return it._

On the cab ride back he opens the book and reads the title. It's Peter Pan. A child's book. And this really wasn't at all what Sherlock had been expecting and _oh_ , this makes it even better, because his soldier is a riddle. A perfect riddle just for him. And now he has the perfect excuse to talk to him.  
He would hear his voice. And the soldier would thank him and maybe even smile. And then Sherlock would show off and he would be impressed. Sherlock had a whole week to prepare he would be perfect next Sunday.

The tired genius grins like an idiot out of the window at his rainy London, absently stroking the wet book in his hands.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock does not dream often and when he does his dreams are about crime-scenes and perfect little murders. (And the Yard really can be grateful that Sherlock chose their side because they would _never_ get him if he'd kill someone. Even the fictive crimes which his subconscious prepares for him to solve in his sleep are perfect in every way.)

But tonight he dreams of his case. The suicide-killer. He dreams of a Lady dressed completely in Pink dead on the floor. He dreams about a soldier kneeling beside her, examining the body. He dreams of the soldier looking at him. He dreams of taking the soldier to Angelos and about looking at him and thinking how nice he looks in his horrid jumpers. He dreams of chases with the soldier next to him, leaving his cane behind. He dreams of the soldier shooting a man for him. He dreams about the soldier moving to 221b.

It is a very nice dream.  
His mobile goes off and the very nice dream ends.

 

**We have another body. Could be the suicide-killer again. Can you take a look at it?**

**Lestrade**

 

An adress follows and Sherlock is already on the way.

 

~*~

 

It is not the killer this time.

It really is suicide.

Gunshot in the head.

Unregistered Sig Sauer P226R.

Left side.

PTSD.

Depression.

Loneliness.

Peter Pan.

The Hands of a surgeon.

 _Doctor_.

Army _Doctor_.

 

 _There is always something_ , Sherlock thinks as he is violently sick on the street.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock sits in the sun and reads the book again, blending out all the people around him. He will never know what was so special about Peter Pan to John Watson, but he won't stop searching for answers behind the dark green cover.

Every Sunday he goes to Regent's Park.

He always arrives at the same time.

Sits on the same bench.

Reads the same book.

Every single week.


	2. Fairy Dust And Happy Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _People say that you can see your whole life in front of your eyes right before you die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Here it finally is. The second chapter. John's POV this time.  
> Please note that I've added a few tags. If a problematic childhood, violence against children, depressions or suicidal thoughts trigger you, please do not read.  
> 

***

John knows better than to blame someone else for the way his life has turned out, he knows that making other people responsible for his own faith won't make anything better.  
But if he'd blame someone it would be his father.  
As does his his sister.  
She certainly does not mind at all blaming their father.  
But then again Harry also blames their mother, her ex-wife, the neighbors, the police, the barkeeper, the government and John.  
Harry blames anyone really, but herself.

It was not easy getting her to sleep but her rant about the world had worn her out and now John watches her as she lies on her couch, her breathing slowly evening out. She looks almost peaceful even though he can't quite ignore the not quite dried tears on her face, or the way her once beautiful, shiny, strong hair now looks as gray and dull as his own. He can't ignore the poor state of her flat and the biting smell of alcohol that reminds him so painfully of their childhood.

Harry is not quite as broken as John yet, but she is getting there. And she is getting there fast. John can't do a single thing to stop it. God knows he tried. But how should he of all people be able to help her? He can't even help himself.

Both of them are driving fast towards towards the ledge, unable to stop, unable to do anything but to watch it happen and to wait for the big crash.

It's a tragedy. It really is.

He turns, takes a better look at the flat. It is a bloody mess. Everywhere are empty bottles, dirty dishes, trash and clothes. Sighing John begins to tidy up a bit. The least he can do for his sister is bringing the waste outside.

Cleaning turns out to be a lot more difficult than he anticipated. His leg hurts with every move. He can use only one hand because of his cane and he can't lift his left arm more than shoulder height. He wants to take a bin bag out of the kitchen closet over his head and he can't reach it.

And in this moment it hits him like a truck how fucking useless and goddamn helpless he'd gotten. He is a fucking cripple and not even forty years old for heavens sake! Suddenly John would really love to throw a tantrum, just like Harry did not an hour ago, he wants to hit something, he wants to crash the fucking bottles in his hand against the wall, he wants to damage something, to destroy, wants to hurt, wants someone to come and be his enemy. He lets the anger fill him completely until he is trembling so hard he has to sit down. It doesn't even last for two minutes and John is abruptly just tired. This was the most he felt since he was shot.

He is a fucking mess. Much more so than Harry. Even more than this flat.

 

***

 

John detests the sessions with Ella. It's completely useless to come here every week just to sit on a chair and listen to her. Most of the time he doesn't even pretend to cooperate, just says nothing at all and stares out of the window. Apparently he has _trust issues._ And isn't this a surprise. Of course he has bloody trust issues! They are pretty damn justified given his childhood and the fact that he was _shot in the back_ and almost _died_ not two months ago. So, yes he indeed has _trust issues_. And what about it? It's not like he can just turn them off. It's not like he can just meet some handsome stranger and become best friends with them, trusting them completely. And he certainly won't trust someone to whom he is _obligated_ to go, someone who John couldn't even chose himself, someone who is paid to poke around in his mind, in his _past_ , a professional who doesn't even registers how ruined John really is. Not that he would ever let her see it. Trust issues, you know.

 

Ella wants him to write a blog.

The only thing he's done since he's been back which seems remotely worth mentioning was right away in his first week in London, when he ran into Seb, an old army mate, who was friendly enough to introduce John to a very nice Man with a formidable mustache who kindly sold him a Sig Sauer P226R. John usually prefers Browning, but she _is_ a beauty (and by far the only one he can afford). But something tells him that Ella (or the police for that matter) wouldn't be too impressed by something like this on his blog.

"Nothing happens to me." he says instead. It's not a lie.

 

***

 

"John! John Watson!"

On his way home he hears someone calling for him.

John doesn't want to be recognized. He doesn't want to look in the eye of someone who knew him when he was whole. Doesn't want someone who knew him then to see how he is broken now.

He just walks on and doesn't turn to look back.

 

***

 

_Tab tab tab_

He sits in his little bedsit. His Laptop is open in front of him, illuminating his face.

_Tab tab tab_

His fingertips are tabbing nervously on the table. There is a cup of tea, not yet cool enough to be drunken.

_Tab tab tab_

Another night he awoke from the screams of his fallen comrades.

Another night he is left alone.

_Tab tab tab_

The horrors of his dreams begin to fade, taking the adrenalin with them.

What's left is the hole in his chest. The nothingness.

_Tab tab tab_

What's left is a strange pull towards the drawer where he has hidden his gun. Just a mild curiosity in the back of his mind. Nothing but a vague idea yet.

_Tab tab tab_

He closes his laptop, stands up and empties the cup into the sink of his kitchen. He takes his jacket and all but flees from his flat into the night. A little voice in his head notes that there are probably some dubious individuals out on the street at this hour. John tries his best not to feel too hopeful.

 

***

 

John is glancing on his phone, wondering why the alarm goes off.

He is a little surprised that it's Thursday already. Again. Apparently he hasn't left his flat in the last seven days. That would explain the empty fridge. Not that he was hungry anyway.

John debates with himself if he should call Ella and say he's not feeling well, but now he _is_ in the shower already and if he is clean for once, he really can leave the flat, too. It's not like he has anything better to do.

 

***

 

The days come and go, all blurring together. and John sits at home watching his wall and doing nothing.

The sentence, once when he was young nothing more but a joke, easy on his lips on moments of frustration, now has become his bitter reality.  
Like a mantra his mind is repeating over and over again, while he desperately tries to cling onto sanity.

Don't shoot yourself in the head.

Don't shoot yourself in the head.

 

***

 

His phone goes off again.

Now, this time he _could have sworn_ it was only a few days since he was to his last appointment.

He fetches the mobile phone from the bedside table. Ah, it's a call, not the alarm. Kind of logical considering it's 11 PM.

John doesn't recognize the number but there is only one Person who would have it anyway. And there is no way he can't take this call, as much as he would like to be left alone.

"Hello?"

"Is this Harry's brother?"

He sighs.

"Where is she?"

 

***

 

Harriet is drunk. Very drunk. Not that this surprises John in the slightest. It's in the middle of a Sunday night. Why else would somebody call him, but to tell him he has to pick up his disaster of a sister. He briefly wonders who turned up for her before he came back from Afghanistan, considering she and Clara broke up about six months ago as he tries to hail a cab for them. Half carrying his sister and leaning on his cane are difficult enough without having to try holding one arm up, but after what felt like an eternity finally a cabbie seemed to have enough compassion to stop for them.

A _very_ long ride in the cab and a _very_ generous tip for the cabbie later they're finally in Harry's bad excuse of a flat. It looks even worse than the last time John has been here.

He lies her on her couch, unable to carry her any longer and strides into her bedroom to get her a blanket and a pillow. He is just on his way out of the room, when he steps on glass. He looks down to see the remains of a photo-frame under his shoe. There is no photo inside. John reckons that it was probably one of Clara or of their time together and Harry simply couldn't stand to see it any longer.  
He carefully wraps the blanket about the slack body of his sister and raises her head to put the big pillow below it. She will most likely have an achy neck tomorrow but this is better than to choke on her own vomit.

He is about to leave when he remembers the broken glass on the bedroom floor. Unlike John, Harry probably won't wear any shoes the next time she is about to step into the room. Sighing he turns back to trash at least the splinters. Better be safe than sorry.

When he is done and back in the living room (where he'd also found broken glass) he sees a crumpled photo in front of the bookshelf. John picks it up, curious what made Harry this emotional.

Only that it isn't a photograph of her and Clara. It's a picture of two children in costumes, standing beside one another, holding hands and sternly looking.

It's him an Harry.

 

 

_There is a flash of light as the camera goes off and John tries his best to keep his eyes open. "Perfect! Oh Harry, you look so beautiful. And John. So handsome. All grown up with your hat and the glasses." John wants to say that he doesn't looks like he's grown up, and it's the completely wrong thing to say for this costume, doesn't she understand the meaning? But their mother is smiling at them and John can't remember the last time he'd seen her smiling. So he says nothing, just looks at Harry and knows that she knows what he's thinking. They always know each others thoughts. They are like best friends. Closer even. Most people actually think they are twins because they are so inseparable. John would never leave his sister and she would never leave him. They are a team. They don't need anyone else and no one is allowed in their world. Well, alright their Mom maybe. But that's it._

_"Alright, now lets go or the best candy will be gone!"_

_Their Mom comes with them, even though he is already eight and Harry seven. Last year they were allowed to go alone. Maybe she just wants to make sure that John takes care of his broken leg._

 

_John is not as fast as Harry and even though he knows she wants to run ahead, she patiently keeps his pace, never letting go of his hand. His sister is the only one who knows that Johns leg is hurting him much more than he lets on. John is really good at not showing pain. He wants to be a soldier someday, so he thinks of it as practice. One day he won't feel pain at all and will be all strong and can protect Harry much better and no one will have a chance against him. No one would even try to break his leg again._

_When they are at the first house Harry bravely knocks on the door. Mom stays behind encouragingly smiling at them. There is a woman opening the door, smiling sweetly. She looks all fake. John instantly doesn't like her. But candy is candy._

_"Trick or Treat" they say simultaneously._

_"Aren't you two adorable!" the woman says and her voice is even worse than her false smile. She pinches both of them in the cheek and turns to get the sweets. "And who are you supposed to be?", she asks as she turns back to them and gives each two chocolate cookies. She must be very stupid, because every idiot would recognize it, their costumes are very good.  
But this would be a very impolite thing to say. "She is Wendy and I am John, Ma'am." John answers instead, because this is polite and he really would prefer if they could just go on to the next house. "From Peter Pan." he adds, as she does not seem to know who Wendy and John are. Harry and he exchange quick looks, she also thinks that this woman is really dumb. "Ah, I know Peter Pan." Now she is frowning at John. "But why are you not Peter, then? Don't you want to be the hero?"_

_"I am her brother and that's all I want to be, Ma'am." John says and Harry takes his arm and they turn to go._

_He will have to explain four times this night why he is not Peter and he will always give the same answer and neither he nor Harry will tell anyone the real reason._

_Because this is more than just a costume for them._

 

 

The flashback had come out of nowhere, without any warning and with such an intensity John only knew from his dreams of Afghanistan. He stumbles back against the bookcase, doesn't even feel the books that land heavy on his feet. There is cold sweat on his face and John struggles to bring his breath back under control.

There is no reason why he should be reacting so violently. Granted, he mostly avoided thinking about his childhood in all his life, in fact this may be even the first time in almost twenty years he thought about it, but this wasn't even a bad memory. It was one of the happy ones, even though even in his happiest memories were always traces of the bad days (namely a broken leg).

John slowly turns and looks at his sister who is still snoring on her couch. He still can feel her tiny hand in his not much bigger one. Can still see her beautiful smile on her face. They used to be able to read each other minds, connected against all odds. Just the two of them together against the world.

Harry does not smile any more. Sometimes she screams from the top of her lungs. Sometimes she cries, lonely and lost. And sometimes she laughs, but it's always too loud and shrill to be genuine. She thinks nobody notices but he does.

John looks at his sister and sees her red nose, her red cheeks and he knows that under her lids her eyes are red, too. Her face is gray and wrinkled and she looks just so tired, so... old.

John knows. Knows how hard she tries to rebuilt their connection, but she is not the girl she used to be and he is not the boy he once was. They both had loosed grip and are free falling. They could reach out to each other but they would never get hold of each other again. It was too late.

He puts the photo back and turns to go, unable to stay here for even another minute, when he finally notices the three book to his feet that had fallen out of the shelf. When he puts them back where they came from, something catches his eye. A dark green book cover is peeking out in the bottom row, as dusty (and, John would be ready to bet, untouched in the last ten years) as his it's neighbours.

Hesitantly he reaches out to it, feeling the old, worn out cloth of the cover under his fingertips and it feels so achingly familiar that he is for a moment afraid he will get another flashback right now. He doesn't, though. Just takes the book out of the case, his palms slowly stroking it without his consent. It makes him sad seeing this book here, forgotten, unread, centimetres of dust laying on top of it.

He pockets it and quietly leaves. Harry won't miss the book and it belongs to both of them anyway.

John doesn't dwell on the fact that his limp became worse on his way home.

 

***

 

That night he can't sleep.

He thinks about his life, of Harry, of Ella and his blog, thinks about the Sig in his night stand, about his cold and empty flat, about the army... about everything really.

John is not an idiot. He recognizes a depression when he sees one and he decidedly can recognize it in himself. The numbness, the nothingness are screaming at him.

He used to have a life. _His_ life. Against all odds he had crafted his own luck. He had become a _doctor_. Worked himself up to the rank of a _captain_. He had _friends_ before.

And now, now he had lost _everything_. There was nothing there any more.

John lies in his bed, wide awake and calculating. If he doesn't do something, he would rather sooner than later give in to the temptation that lies loaded in his drawer. He doesn't even flinch at the thought of it, the idea of his own death not bothering in the slightest any more, after the last month in a mixture of numbness, terror, loneliness and boredom it even seemed pretty inviting actually. So this option was standing, there, right in front of him like an elephant in the room, which he just doesn't acknowledge under any circumstances on normal days. (John was pretty good at avoiding all kinds of thought he ought not to have.)

Today, though was _not_ a normal day. Today he was for the first time in what felt like forever able to think calm and detached about his situation.

Today was the day he had to fell a decision.

John thinks about how he had fought for his life. How he had begged for it not two months ago. He invaded Afghanistan, for the love of god. He was a doctor and a captain. And he wasn't to simply giving up now because of this bloody depression! Not without fighting, anyway. And like this, finally there is something like the old fire back inside of him.

He thinks about his options.

First: Ella. His therapist doesn't help him. It's not her fault, not really. John just doesn't let her. Won't trust her and he is constantly on the edge due the fact that he even has to go to her. So maybe he could work on that. She is a professional. He should be more open to her advices and whatever therapy attempts she wanted to try on him.

Second: Friends. He should try meeting up with some of his mates. Didn't Bill leave a comment under his blog last week that he would be in town end of the month? This would be be wonderful opportunity. He could start going to pub from time to time, trying to make new connections, although he would have to be careful with the drinking, as apparently the Watsons had a thing for it.

Third: Sex. Even though he didn't actually miss it in the moment, John knows that this is a side effect of the depression. He'd been known under the name Three-Continents-Watson back in Afghanistan and social contact was important, so maybe it wouldn't even have to be sex in the end. So, again the pub. Maybe just start looking again, like he used to. He knows how to flirt. The only problem is that he can't for the life of him really believe that anyone would want him any more. He is broken and old, a shadow of himself..

He shakes his head forcefully. None of that right now. He drowned long enough in self-pity. He would try and that would be it. Next point.

Fourth: Job. All right, the chances someone would want him were decidedly small (and this wasn't self-pity, this was being realistic), but he could try at the very least.

Fifth: Sport. No. John crosses that point from his mental list. There was no chance in hell he would be able to do sports again in nearest future... so, try again... what was also be supposed to help in these situations? Fresh air maybe? Yeah, going outside of this ugly flat more often seemed a pretty good idea actually.

So. That's it. The plan.

A voice in his mind which sounds an awful lot like Ella is scolding him, because he won't face the core of his problems. He is avoiding them again.

And maybe the voice is right.

No, it is definitely right.

Maybe John really has to get closure with his past first, before he can move on. But he won't be able to do this at Ella's, that much is painfully clear from experience. So alone it is. And suddenly he recalls the events of the day. He glances over to where he knows his bag is standing, almost feeling the book inside it staring at him. There he has his solution.

Sixth: Forcing himself to remember unpleasant things about the past in order to find his peace. Maybe. Hopefully.

When he finally dozes of John is almost content.

 

The next day he mentally adds 'Eating' and 'Cleaning' to his battle-plan and settles for his day.

He eats. He goes outside. He goes shopping. Has a nice talk with an old woman at the Tesco. Eats again.

When he comes home he is completely worn-out, as if he just had an eight hour workday. There won't be memory-facing today but that's ok.

 

***

 

In fact he doesn't touch the book until five days later, when he finally decides he put this off long enough. Yesterday he'd called Bill and cleaned his entire flat. Tomorrow he wants to write applications. Today he is going to finally grow a pair and to try this. Maybe it won't even work. Maybe it only works with photos. Or it was a one-time-thing the last time. No reason to be this cowardly about this. He straightens up, takes the book and leaves the flat.  
No point in doing this here, where there is a gun dangerously near. After all he has no idea how his reaction may be. It's sunny and relatively warm for January, so he decides to sit on a bench at Regent's Park. He doesn't intend to stay long anyway and it's actually pretty nice.

He takes the book in his hands, strokes over the green cover and finally opens it. He feels adrenalin in his veins. His hands are perfectly steady.

The book feels warm in his hands. It smells of old paper and... the sea.

 

_John looks at the book he just got from his Mom and tries to remember. He doesn't remember much from when he was very young but he can recall the house at the sea where his grandmother lived._

_It was more like a little cottage actually. He and Harry would spend their summers there when their parents wanted to be alone for a while. John remembers the tiny kitchen and he remembers the old stove. He remembers the little bed he and Harry shared and he remembers the old curtains with the ugly pattern._

_John remembers how it always smelled like salt and fish and he remembers how the garden seemed to consist of nothing but stinging nettles._

_John can't remember how his grandmother looked. All he can call to his mind of her are her wrinkled hands, holding a big dark green book and her broken tired voice reading to them every night, when the shadows in front of the window became monsters and the noises of the old house voices of ghosts. She had smelled of lavender and tea and the sea._

_When John was four and Harry three they weren't allowed to visit grandmother any more._

_Now John is six and Harry five and their mother just brought them a dark green book and said it was theirs now. When he asked why grandmother didn't wanted it any more she just looked sad and didn't answer. John looks at Harry and she asks him if he can read it to her. He can't. Not yet. He promises that he will learn it as fast as he can. His kindergarten-teacher always says that he is very smart._

 

Now, this wasn't too bad after all. And it had worked just wonderfully.  
He could do this. Every day a little memory wouldn't be too hard.  
He stays in the park for a while. Looking at the people and silently smiling to himself before he goes back home, picking up groceries on the way. Tomorrow he will get himself a job.

 

***

 

He doesn't go job hunting the next day. The next day is a _bad one_. The black hole is back, sucking in everything again. And after having a taste of a better life back John is just frustrated. Or he would be, if he could rouse any feeling inside of him.  
The following days aren't any better. He doesn't leave his flat, making some excuses for Ella, doesn't eat, doesn't do anything except staring at his wall.

He needs four whole days until he gets hold of himself again.  
On the fifth he wakes up and feels once again a hint of stubbornness.

All right. Shorter steps then. Maybe once a week a memory. On Sundays. Because his appointments with Ella are on Thursdays, so he has some days to recover and to decide if he wants to share something.

But for now he will eat something. And shower. Definitely shower.

 

***

 

It gets better. John gets better. It's not easy, he still has to fight every day just to leave the bed, to shower, to go outside. But he fights and wins and he can see that slowly his efforts are rewarded.

Every Sunday he goes to Regent's Park. He always arrives at the same time and always sits on the same bench.

Sometimes he will gather his strength and open the book and will remember things.  
Sometimes he will just watch families, people who walk their dogs or birds.  
Sometimes he feels like someone is watching him but he never sees anyone so he thinks that this is just the PTSD.

He also starts eating again and tries to be more open to Ella, who seems to be rather pleased with his progress.

It becomes spring and summer and autumn and he feels... not good yet and not alive exactly but he is getting there.

 

***

 

"Why did you break it?" John asks. The question troubles him a while now.

"Mh?" Harry is barely conscious.

"The picture. Of us. It's not like the other things here. You broke this deliberately." Like the mirror, he doesn't say.

Harry looks at him, her eyes bloodshot. She doesn't ask which picture he means.

"'Cause 'e never came. Peter. Never. Wait'd fo' nothin'. Made me angry."

She looks straight into his eyes, hers so similar to his own and for the first time in forever John can see the little girl in her again. His sister. His best friend.

"Tell me a story?" She slurs and falls asleep before he even opens his mouth. So he says nothing, just quietly strokes her hair before he leaves.

 

***

 

When the flashback is over, John's head is cleared of all thought for a moment..

He looks around. It's dark already. The park is empty. It rains. He doesn't know when the rain had started to fall. When he sat down it was only a bit cloudy but now he is completely soaked.

Not that it matters.

The last memory has left nothing but a lump in his throat, a bitter taste on his tongue and a vague feeling of sickness in his stomach.

He has to accept it.

It's just the way it is.

His reality _is_ bitter and sickening.

In the end it only took one little memory to remind him of the fact.

A promise, made by innocent children, to never become like their father.

And really, he should have known better than to wast so much time, so much strength for this pitiful attempt to change himself.

He was such a fool.

He will always stay the one person he never wanted to be.

Neither he nor Harry did ever stand a chance.

And both of them had tried. Had fought so hard.

But they were just as addicted as their father.

She to alcohol and destruction. He to adrenalin and violence.

Harry was right. There was no one who would come to rescue them.

No heroes, no knights in shining amours, no miracles to find here.

Not for them.

 

He leaves the book in the park.

Maybe it will save someone else.

He stands up and goes home.

His fight is over.

 

***

 

People say that you can see your whole life in front of your eyes right before you die.

John almost laughs from the irony of it and pulls the trigger.

 

 

***

~*~

 

 

_Mom and Dad are arguing. Again. They think that Harry and John can't hear them because it was dark already and they have to be in bed (which they are) but they are very loud. Louder than yesterday even._

_Mom's eyes will probably be red again tomorrow._

_"John?" He hears his little sister whisper from the bed on the other side of the room._

_"Yes?" He whispers back._

_"I can't sleep."_

_"Me too, Harry."_

_It's quiet for a moment._

_"John?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Will you tell me a story?"_

_John quietly stands up and tries not to think about that his bare feet are perfectly available now for everything that could possibly hide under his bed. He has no time to think about this now, because Harry sounds afraid. He tucks his blanket around him and crosses the room as fast as he can. He climbs into Harry's bed and as he begins to talk to her in a hushed voice both of them forget about the screams in the other room and leave for another world full of fun and adventure. They ride dragons and catch unicorns together, they fly over the clouds and bathe in the sunlight, they do anything they want to. The screams from the other room become the cries of the bad knights fearing their dragons, the pang of the front door is the noise when the cave of a big monster is destroyed._

_When Harry is asleep John quietly goes back to his own bed and lets the sound of his mother crying lull him into sleep._

 

~*~

 

_Harry is hiding in the closet. She is very scared. John had said he would protect her. So he sits outside in their room and waits for his Dad to finally break down the door._

_He is drunk. Very drunk._

_John doesn't know where Mom is, but she is not here. He has to protect Harry._

_Their father is screaming from the next room and knocking so hard on the door John thinks it has do splinter soon._

_He is scared, too. He wish he could hide away together with Harry. But then, there would be no one protecting them._

_John is scared and crying and he has to go to the bathroom and he wants his Mom._

_After what seems like an eternity the door opens with a loud crack._

_John can't understand what his Dad is screaming. He is too loud and too drunk, he slurs every word but he doesn't has to answer anyway. He lets Dad scream at him and shake him and let him drag him on his hair out of the room even though it hurts. It hurts so much even more tears start streaming down his face. But it's all right. At least it's him, not Harry._

 

~*~

 

_John is the first in his class who can read a whole site from the textbook without stumbling over the words once. Miss Brown, his teacher, even sticks on of her glittering stickers into his heft which means that he's really done well. Miss Brown was very chary of her praises and when she did it she wouldn't say it out loud, she would just give you one of her stickers and sometimes John would see her mouth twitch in something like a smile._

_So when he takes his heft home, John is really proud. Mom will surely praise him and she will maybe bake some cookies, like she did when John was younger and Dad will maybe smile, too and not be angry any more with him._

 

~*~

 

_When John is seven years old, his father hits him for the first time._

_He is drunk and very angry because he lost his job yesterday and he and Mom had argued the whole night through. John doesn't know what he has done but when the man comes into their room the next morning and sees John and Harry cuddling in the girls bed, a dark green book lying beside them, he snaps._

_John wakes up first and as he sits up, he already feels his fathers hand on his face._

_He is a big boy but it hurts. It hurts and he doesn't know what he's done wrong and so he starts to cry._

_His father looks like he just woke up from a bad dream. He looks at John and looks at his hand and he flees from the room._

_John cries and cries and can't stop even when his Mom comes to him and holds him and rocks him gently and whispers sweet nonsense into his ear._

 

~*~

 

_One week before Halloween there was a big fight in the Watson family._

_John's Dad was drunk again and John's Mom said that she would leave and somehow the two Watson children were right in the middle and while John tried to protect his sister his father got hold of the boys arm and had hauled him back from the woman and the girl and John felt like flying for a moment until he made contact with the wall behind him and then there was a loud crack and the last thing John remembers was the pain in his leg and the sound of his father laughing at him how useless he was, how weak._

_John wakes up in hospital. Mom and Harry both sit beside his bed and are well except for a few bruises and this is enough to stop John from crying._

_He is not a baby any more and crying always made his father just more angry anyway._

_He will become strong. And once he is strong enough he will get them out of the reach of the man he once loved unconditional._

 

~*~

 

_John actually likes school. He likes to learn. He likes to be in the rugby team. He likes to have friends. He likes not to be at home._

_His sister hates school. John doesn't understand why until one day he can see a group of boys and girls from Harry's class cornering her in the school yard. He can't see what they are doing, can't hear what they are saying but he can see that his sister is crying when they leave her alone._

_The next day John has a nice little talk with the biggest of the boys from Harry's class to ensure she is not bullied again._

_It works._

_And if he is suspended from school for two weeks for it, if his father will scream at him and beat him the next four days, then so be it._

 

_~*~_

 

_"A Doctor? You?" The voice of his father sounds spiteful as he is cornering John and the boy once again loathes the fact that he is so short. All of the other boys in his class had their length spurts by now._

_"And how do you think this will work?" The face of the man is twisted with rage. His breath stinks like a Pub._

_"Who" Slap. "do" Slap. "you" Slap. "think" Slap. "WILL" Slap. "FUCKING" Slap. "PAY" Slap. "FOR THIS?!" Slap Slap._

_"YOU ARE NOTHING!"_

_Slap._

_"AS IF YOU WERE EVEN VAGUELY SMART ENOUGH!"_

_Slap._

_"USELESS"_

_Slap._

_"FUCKING"_

_Slap._

_"LAZY"_

_Slap._

_"BRAT."_

_I goes on like this for a while._

 

_When he sits in their room and lets Harry help him to wrap the bruises on his body his decision to become a doctor has only strengthened._

 

 

_~*~_

 

_There is a boy in his class. His name is Jake._

_When John first met Jake he was fourteen. Jake was new in his class, his family just moved to London. They looked at each other and they knew. The broken ones recognize their own kind. It's in the look in the eyes, it's in the way they bear themselves, it's in the subtle hisses when someone touches their bruises, hidden underneath long sleeves._

_They never speak about it. They never speak at all. There is nothing to talk about._

_The first time they fight is two weeks after Jake transferred to Johns school. John has no idea who started it, or even what it was about but suddenly they were behind the school, hidden behind a few bushes and started to beat the heck out of each other._

_It soon becomes a tradition for them. Every time they can't handle things at home any more they meet, mostly deep in the night, just to fight. It's not as if their bruises would be noticed anyway. And if one of them is crying, they only start to strike harder._

 

_~*~_

 

_John is sixteen and in love. At least he thinks he is. Her name is Amy and she has long blonde hair and big blue eyes and her freckles are golden on her pale face so bright, he sometimes thinks she is glowing. She looks like an angel.  
She is also kind and funny and witty and when she blushes it's the most beautiful thing in the world. John never knew a human being could be this perfect._

_They went out a few times along with Harry and one of her friends and John doesn't even dare to hope it but sometimes Amy looks at him and it seems that maybe, impossibly she also wants to be more than just friends with him._

_He is for once in his life truly happy._

_That is, of course before he notices his sisters face, when she looks at the girl and it is as if he's looking into a mirror. The marvelling, the longing... the love._

_It breaks his heart, when he tells Amy that he can't meet her any more but he just can't look at Harry's own heartbroken face, every time they are together, and just be happy for himself. It's just wrong._

_And if they both are miserable now without the girl both of them love then at least they are miserable together.  
And isn't this something they are familiar with. _

 

_~*~_

 

_It's John's Birthday. Seventeen. Not that anyone would celebrate with him anyway. His father snores on their couch, Harry was at her girlfriend's and god knows where his Mother was. Probably with some man who wouldn't beat her up as soon as he woke up._

_John tries hard not to feel angry, but he can't help it. Of course, Harry had thought of him, even got him a gift, but in the end she still left him alone with their father of all people. Their father, who wouldn't even be aware of the fact that it's Johns birthday if he actually knew what day it was. At least the man is sleeping instead of beating him, so John reckons that this counts as his birthday present from him._

_When he arrives at the ruin of the old spinning mill he doesn't really expect to meet someone there. He hopes of course, or else he wouldn't be here._

_Ever since the great fire two years ago he and Jake would meet in here to fight. It's a standing date, every Saturday night when both of their fathers would be in the pub or sometimes on the other days too when they needed it. All it would take was a piece of paper with a time scrawled on it, passed to the other in school and the other boy would turn up. It's almost as if they're friends, only that they are not.  
They still don't talk. They just fight._

_Today, though it's Wednesday and John had been too proud to admit he would need a 'meeting' on his own birthday in the light of the day, so chances that Jake will be here are slim. Nevertheless being here is better than waiting at home for his Dad to wake up, even though it's a very cold night, the winter not fully over._

_"Took you long enough.", a voice behind him crumbles._

_John startles and turns to see the lanky boy sitting in a corner by the door, a few bottles beer at his side and a cigarette in his hand._

_John is stunned for a moment and watches Jake lighting it up._

_The other boy looks up before throwing a full bottle to him._

_"Drink up and then let's go. It's fucking cold and I've waited for an eternity."_

_This was probably the most he had ever heard the other boy speaking. Normally they just attack each other as soon as they're here and they only stop when they're exhausted and bloody and finally feel like they're not about to explode any more (in these moments it's almost as if they feel normal again)._

_Today though John sits down and opens his beer with the lighter Jake tosses at him. He drinks a sip._

_"Go where?"_

 

_Fighting Jake is good._

_Fighting side by side with Jake, on the other hand, is truly magnificent._

_It is five against two, but the others don't stand a chance, for the two of them are, as it turns out, a perfect team. Together they were a force so deadly, John thinks they could take much more then just five petty thugs. And as he beats the shit out of the gang leader who thought he could stab his... partner(?) in the back John feels the adrenalin in his veins, filling him to the very core and he begins to laugh and soon the other boys deep voice joins in and it's glorious. They fight until they hear the police sirens and then they run and run, back to their house (and John has to stop himself to think of it as 'home') and they never stop laughing the whole time, until they are safe inside, hiding behind the broken windows in the second floor, gasping for air. As their giggles slowly die and leave the two boys grinning still they begin to talk. Jake lets two dozen bottles of beer appear, out of nowhere and they drink until they forget what awaits them at their homes and laugh and talk and talk and then Jake makes a joke and John knocks him on the shoulder and they are wrestling and laughing until suddenly Jakes face is really close to John's and now it's somehow not funny any more at all and he doesn't even know who started it but suddenly they are kissing and their wrestling becomes something else entirely and John has kissed other people and he has fucked other people, both guys and girls, but it was never like this, never. Never this desperate, never this... much._

_When it's over they're lying on the floor, sharing one of Jakes horrible cigarettes and watch the night sky through the broken rooftop._

_Jake doesn't say Happy Birthday._

_John doesn't say Thank You._

_They have to go home before the sun rises._

 

_The next day Jake is not in school. Nor is he any day after this._

_On Saturday John waits for hours in their house but he doesn't come._

_One day later John learns why, from The Sun of all things.  
Jake killed his father in this night - their night. Choked him with a pillow, while he slept._

_And though John knows that the old bastard deserved much worse, the judge apparently didn't._

_Jake doesn't even survive the first week in HMYOI._

 

_John doesn't come back to their house._

_He buys a pack of the horrible cigarettes Jake always smoked an a few bottles of beer, he sits on the Thames where they used to fight one night long ago, and as he watches the smoke floating upwards until it vanishes he thinks for the first time in years about Neverland._

 

_~*~_

 

_As soon as he is eighteen John enlists. He will become a doctor. He will show his father. He will show them all._

_His bags are packed since Harry left two months ago to live with Clara._

_When he leaves the house his father wakes up._

_"Where are you going?" He asks._

_"You didn't think I would stay, did you?" John answers. His voice is cold as ice._

_And all at once all anger leaves the mans face and he looks lost and devastated._

_John slams the front door behind him._

 

_~*~_

_***_

 

_John is six. They're hiding under Harry's blanket, trying not to feel afraid of their father who throws a tantrum in the next room. He is drunk again._

_"John?"_

_"Yes, Harry?"_

_"...I don't want to become like Dad." His sisters voice sounds so very small._

_He strokes her head._

_"We won't, Harry. We won't ever grow up. Like Peter Pan."_

_"John?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Do you think Peter will come to us, too and take us to Neverland?"_

_"Of course he will. He likes when children tell stories about him. I won't ever read about something else. And then he will surely come."_

_They lie quietly for a moment._

_"John?"_

_"Yes?"_

_"Promise we won't ever grow up?"_

_"I promise."_

 

_***_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took me this long, but it was much more difficult to write this from John's POV for me, because the whole thing sometimes hit a bit close home.  
> I'm also not completely happy with it but I kept on editing it over and over and I think it's time to let it be and move on.  
> There are a few parts of Johns thoughts and actions which are pretty much my own, because I couldn't distance myself as much from this as I wanted to. So if it's out of character for him, I'm very sorry. I tried, though.
> 
> Something else: I know this is a pretty bad time for many people and considering this is a problem I have myself I just wanted to say if you need someone to talk to here is [my Tumblr.](http://yourmomshavesforsherlockholmes.tumblr.com) My ask is always open :)
> 
> I wish you all a merry christmas and a happy new year :)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd and to my defence it's 4 AM and I am not native english, so I am sorry for my mistakes, I hope it is somehow readable though. Thank you for reading :)


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